


Close Quarters

by zuzeca



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Angst and Porn, Awkward Boners, Bottom Megatron, Immobility, M/M, Other, Pushy Bottoms, Sex In A Cave, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 11:39:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7756351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuzeca/pseuds/zuzeca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An explosion. A cave-in. A conversation. Awkward boners all around.</p><p>Or, in which Megatron doesn't let anything as insignificant as several tons of solid rock stop him from getting what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close Quarters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spaceliquid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceliquid/gifts).



> *collapses in a heap* Finally getting this up and posted. A birthday present for the lovely Elvie, who asked for Megop sex in a cave with bottom Megatron, and has been kindly patient with me. Set in a weird Season 3 AU which exists only in my own head, where Thundertron becomes the next big baddie and forces our intrepid idiots to work together for the sake of not being murdered. And Optimus and Megatron's thirst for each other can drain oceans. xD Happy reading and enjoy!

“You,” said Megatron, the spiked curve of his helm jabbing painfully into a gap between the plates of Optimus's forearm guard. “Are a slagging fool.”

His battle computer screeching combatant proximity warnings, processor engaged in calculations of risk assessment and structure stability--or in laymech’s terms, whether the low ceiling of the tiny rock pocket in which they were currently entombed was about to come crashing down on their helms, or rather _his_ helm, as Megatron, tucked securely beneath him, would no doubt be spared the worst of the collapse--Optimus did not reply. He did tighten his arms around Megatron, though to restrain him or to remind himself of Megatron's continued function he could not have said.

“With all the fireworks surrounding your acquisition of wings,” said Megatron, after a few moments of awkward silence. “I would think you'd be not so quick to forget them and dive _down_ to avoid an incoming missile instead of up.”

Optimus could not bring himself to admit that he _had_ forgotten his wings, but only insofar that he had forgotten that the option to snatch Megatron up out of the flight path of a Star Seeker missile lay open to him, rather than tackling him to the ground, which had resulted in their current predicament when the cliffs above them had collapsed. “Not all of us have had the benefit of millennia of practice,” he said instead. “Can your scanners detect the presence of a vent?”

Megatron stiffened in his arms, as he always did when Optimus mentioned his past. He wore his gladiatorial origins like a badge of honor, but the moment the mines were brought up, he grew snappish and offended.

“Why,” said Megatron, his tone snide. “Were your own damaged by your misguided heroics?”

Optimus sighed and carefully, carefully groped for Megatron’s hand. Megatron grumbled, but gave it over. He did not even protest when Optimus guided it back, bending the elbow joint in a way that couldn't be comfortable, and pressed his palm against a patch of crushed plating, where a chunk of shrapnel from the blast was embedded. The message was clear: upgraded by the Forge, Optimus's armor was much thicker than Megatron's. The same lightness that made Megatron more maneuverable in the air left him vulnerable to such minor events as a direct missile strike.

“Your scanners are more sensitive to airflow and magnetic fields,” said Optimus patiently.

For a few moments Megatron was mulishly silent. “Above us, and to the left,” he said finally. “Airflow is slow but sufficient. The surface is thirty mechanometers above us, give or take.”

It ached to hear Megatron use a collective pronoun. On foolish impulse, Optimus squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”

“Do not mention it,” said Megatron. “Ever.”

Optimus sighed and rested his helm against the back of Megatron's. It felt strange, having Megatron tucked against him this way, an unreal sensation of Megatron as small in a way that he had never noticed. He thought he felt Megatron shiver. “Can we dig our way out?”

“Possibly,” said Megatron. “If we ascend at an angle, and shore up the tunnel to keep from becoming trapped.”

But he did not move, and neither did Optimus. Despite the claustrophobia of the cave, the darkness and close quarters seemed soothing, shutting them away from the mess and misery of the outside world, where Thundertron was no doubt at this moment crowing his victory to the skies. Megatron shifted against Optimus slightly, armor scraping against his own.

“Are you injured?” said Optimus.

“As if I could be injured by something as pathetic as a fallen cliff,” said Megatron, but there was no heat to it.

“Of course,” said Optimus softly.

Megatron squirmed against him once more, aft bumping against Optimus’s pelvic guards, and Optimus tried not to think about the last time they had been laid out thus. Granted their positions had been reversed, Megatronus a heavy and thrilling blanket as he ground his spike eagerly against Orion’s valve, but even the change did nothing to lessen the appeal. An electric pulse rippled across his interface hardware and Optimus tried to put his processor elsewhere.

After several moments of distracting wriggling, Megatron allowed his helm to drop against Optimus's forearm guard with an audible clunk. Then, shockingly, he actually let out a quiet sigh.

“It would stand to reason that that cursed artifact would have made you frigid as well,” he said, his tone peevish, though Optimus thought he could detect a hint of disappointment as well.

Optimus blinked. “Frigid?” he said. “Why would you think that?”

Megatron shot him an arch look over the spikes of his shoulder guard and gave a slow, intentional grind against him.

Optimus stared at him. “You are doing this deliberately?” Megatron actually hunched, looking vaguely guilty. “We are at imminent risk of deactivation--putting aside the millennia of baggage--and you thought that _this_ was the time for seduction?”

Megatron didn't look at him.

“What made you think such an attempt would even be successful?” said Optimus, unable to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

“It always was before,” said Megatron, sullen.

Optimus opened his mouth, and closed it, unable to refute the statement entirely. “That was a long time ago,” he said instead.

“Of course,” said Megatron wearily, but his frame slumped all the same.

After several moments of grappling with himself, Optimus caved and dared to slide his hand down to clasp Megatron's waist, where thinner mesh armor rode over warm protoform. He gave a gentle squeeze. “And you feel different, like this. I admit to some uncertainty concerning my appeal to you now.”

Megatron didn't move, his ventilations shallow. “Mining for compliments, Optimus?”

“No,” said Optimus, tracing the shapes of Megatron's pelvic armor until he reached his interface hatch. He splayed his fingers across it, let himself remember the shape of Megatron's spike, the glowing, almost hidden pocket of his valve. “But we are both much altered, in body as well as processor. Perhaps a change of pace is in order.”

He rubbed his thumb across the hatch until it slid back and lubricant dripped onto his palm. Curious, he thumbed the opening, feeling how the thick lips of Megatron's valve parted, before pushing a digit inside.

Megatron arched and let out a peculiar sound that sent Optimus’s interface systems into overdrive, only to be drowned out by the warning rumble of shifting, unstable rock.

They both froze, Optimus feeling strangely embarrassed with his thumb still jammed in Megatron's valve, for all they were utterly alone. At last the rumble ceased, but a few pebbles cascaded down from the low ceiling, plinking off their armor.

Megatron groaned. “Frag it all,” he said, his tone almost plaintive with disappointment. “I evaluated the pocket as stable enough for movement. I must be out of practice.”

Optimus swallowed and, before he could think better of it, said, “If you are amenable, I believe I have a workaround.” He twisted his thumb before slowly pulling it free of Megatron's valve.

“I am listening,” said Megatron, his voice a touch strained.

Optimus withdrew his interface hatch, allowing his spike to pressurize into the narrow gap between Megatron's thighs. Shifting with slow, painstaking care, he nudged the head between the lips of Megatron's valve.

He had to bite his glossa to control himself, to keep from thrusting. Megatron was blisteringly hot inside, slick, and, as he began to ease himself in, unbelievably _tight_.

Megatron panted, his valve clamping and spasming as Optimus inched forward. At last he managed to sheath in full, and paused, trembling, to gather himself, to keep from overloading then and there.

By the Allspark, now he understood why Megatronus had been so eager to have him all those millennia ago.

“Are you alright?” he said.

He felt Megatron swallow. “Should I bother asking why the Forge saw fit to upgrade you here as well?” he said, but his voice was more hoarse than mocking.

Optimus ran a teasing thumb across Megatron's primary anterior node and squeezed him tight to keep him still as Megatron let out a choked noise and twitched. “I do not know, but if it means I can please you, I am glad for it all the same.”

“Not enough,” said Megatron, voice full of static.

“I know,” said Optimus patiently. “And were we anywhere else I would gladly bend you over and take you, or have you ride me so I could watch you overload again and again, but circumstances dictate otherwise.”

Megatron actually whined, an uncharacteristically soft sound, and Optimus let out a soothing rumble, letting it vibrate their plating.

“Patience,” he said. “Do you remember your match against Twistwing?”

“You expect me to recall a minor event millennia distant _now?”_ said Megatron.

Optimus chuckled. “I was referring to what happened after the match.”

The way Megatron's valve squeezed around him indicated he almost certainly _did_ remember. Orion had come to watch the match, optics fixed anxiously on Megatronus the entire time, but did not stay for the closing ceremonies. Instead he'd bribed a guard to let him into Megatronus’s quarters.

What he'd expected to be a wild interface session had turned out quite differently. Megatronus had ended up on his back, Orion on his spike, but instead of riding Megatronus, he had held himself perfectly still, working the mechanisms of his valve in steady, inexorable unison until Megatron had overloaded in him.

It had taken a full joor.

The memory of Megatronus's expression, half-adoring, half-disbelieving, and the way he'd trembled and shaken like a mechanimal was one that Optimus cherished.

“Why do you ask?” said Megatron. His field flickered embarrassment and Optimus was keenly reminded how, under the layers of scars and hatred, how very young Megatron actually was.

Instead of answering, Optimus kissed him, a gentle press against the side of Megatron's helm, the way he'd seen the humans do to soothe and comfort. “Feel me inside you,” he said. “Where I contact your sensors. That will make it easier to find the motor relays.”

Megatron shivered. There was a long, aching pause and then his valve hitched down hesitatingly around Optimus, a slow squeeze.

Optimus purred his approval. “Yes, like that. They are generally activated as a group, but with patience and practice, they may be manipulated individually.”

“Practice?” said Megatron, sounding not a little strangled. “I do not remember any such thing.”

Optimus hummed in agreement. “While a warm and willing partner would have been preferable, I wanted to surprise you, so I made do with an…artificial substitute.”

Megatron valve convulsed around him and Optimus gripped him tight, marveling at how easy it was to restrain Megatron now. Granted he was hardly fighting, but part of Optimus longed to know if he could pin Megatron on his back and frag him open, as slow as he liked, while Megatron cursed and spat in futile frustration.

He tried not to think about whether he would ever get the opportunity.

Megatron's frame relaxed and Optimus eased his grip. “Practice,” he prompted gently.

Megatron shuddered, but his valve hitched obediently down around Optimus. Slowly, his valve began to move in, long, deliberate ripples as he panted, twitching. Optimus kissed him again and began to rub his thumb across Megatron's node at the same pace.

His chronometer glitched and time seemed to dilate in the darkness. Megatron gasped and shivered and at last his valve clamped down tight. Lubricant gushed, and Optimus felt his own charge overflow.

Megatron let out a low noise as transfluid pumped into him, and Optimus kept his fingers moving, pushing him past that edge until he felt Megatron overload around him again. At last he withdrew, gently petting his palm across Megatron's ventral plating.

Resting his helm against the back of Megatron's, he breathed into the darkness, felt the heat rise from their vents, the now-soft encasement of Megatron's valve around him. Strange that a mechanism of so many sharp edges should feel so welcoming inside.

“What now?” said Optimus at last, when the silence stretched too thin and he could keep quiet no longer.

For several long moments, Megatron did not reply. Finally he drew in a deep breath and released it.

“We tunnel out,” he said. “We rip that two-bit excuse for a space pirate limb from limb, commandeer his ship, burn his crew.”

“And then?” said Optimus.

“Then we practice, on a proper berth. With the proper opportunity for pillow talk.”  
  
Optimus hid his smile against the back of Megatron’s neck. “As you wish.”


End file.
